


'"That cure that I found," Sam says'

by themegalosaurus



Series: SPN episode codas [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s11e02 Form and Void, Gen, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16835917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: Sam tells Dean he was infected. It works out okay.Coda to episode 11x02, 'Form and Void' (2 of 3)





	'"That cure that I found," Sam says'

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from Tumblr. This was one of a couple of fics trying to figure out how it might go if Sam told Dean he was temporarily infected with the Croatoan virus.

The next morning when Sam comes into the kitchen, Dean’s already up and making coffee. 

“Cas still resting?” Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head a little and shrugs. Angels don’t sleep, but this is the second time this week that Sam has had to peel a shaken, shaking Cas off the library floor, clean up his wounds and put him to bed to lie down. It seems almost ridiculous that he crawled his way back to them, when it was Dean left him bloody and miserable just a few days before. But then. Sam hasn’t got much of a leg to stand on when it comes to that. 

“Here you go,” Dean says, and hands him a mug. “Makin’ bacon. You in?” 

“Sure,” says Sam. He sits down at the table, warming his hands around the cup, and watches his brother’s back as Dean starts to busy himself at the stove. He’s trying to remember how to interact with Dean, Dean as he usually is without the supernatural influence that’s been operating in unquantifiable ways to unbalance their relationship over the past eighteen months. It’s difficult to remember how things used to, how they ought to, be; especially because Sam spent the half-year before Dean took on the Mark carrying a silent passenger of his own. Who knows how much Gadreel messed around in his head? 

What he really wants to know, right now, is how much he’s allowed to ask of his brother. Sam could do with talking things through. He’s been buried in his own head ever since Dean left the hospital – ever since he got infected, for sure – and it’s probably stupid but now he’s okay again he kind of needs somebody to know what happened, to know that he almost died. Otherwise he’s worried that the whole thing will drift into unreality, become just another of those events in his life that he’s never absolutely sure took place; the opposite of an anchor, a balloon tugging him up and adrift. The horrible night he spent in the janitor’s closet, grappling again with the spectre of his imminent death, is already beginning to take on the texture of a dream. That’s why he has to tell Dean what happened. Even though he wasn’t _THERE_ , if Dean knows about it, if Sam tells him now, then later he will still know and his knowledge can help shore Sam down, when Sam needs it, when things start to come unstuck. _IF_ they start to come unstuck. That hellfire vision’s got him jumpy. 

Also. Also it’s been a horrible, horrible few days and Sam kind of just wants a hug. Dean used to be really good at giving hugs, solid and warm and with a comforting familiar smell. But it’s been a long time. 

Sam clears his throat. 

“This cure that I found,” he says. 

“Yeah,” says Dean, and he half turns around but he’s still stirring something in the pan. “I know. Good job, man. You were right. Staying, finding a cure… turned out to be the right call. All I got is an empty cradle, a dead sheriff and a real bad feeling.” 

“Thanks,” says Sam, shocked by how shocked he is to hear Dean say it. _‘Good job… you were right.’_ The praise turns him positively pink with embarrassment. How long has it been since Dean spoke to him that way? How pathetic is he, a grown-up man and so dependent on his brother’s approval? This is good, though; he thinks this is good. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it turned out OK. Um. Which is good, really, because, uh… I, uh, I was infected for a while myself.” 

He says the last words quickly, looking down at his hands, and for a moment he’s worried that Dean didn’t even hear them and that he’s going to have to say the whole thing all over again. Then he realises that the scraping noise of wood against metal has stopped: that Dean has slid the pan off the hob and must have turned to face him. He looks up. 

“What are you talking about, Sammy?” Dean says. “You were infected? What the fuck?” He’s doing that thing where he’s concerned and scared and it comes off angry. At least. Sam thinks that’s what he’s doing. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. 

He definitely shouldn’t have said anything. 

“How could you let that happen?” Dean says. 

Sam’s so stupid. Dean was just starting to trust him, for the first time in God knows how long, and Sam has to let on about this latest big fuck-up, throwing himself under the bus all over again. OK. OK. Time to backtrack a little. 

“It’s not… I did it on purpose,” he says, not really thinking it all the way through. “I didn’t think… I had to know what it felt like, and the others were all too far gone to tell me.” 

“Chrissakes, Sammy,” Dean says. He’s focused on Sam, intense. Sam wishes he’d look away. 

“It was fine,” he said. “Worked out well. I, um. It felt kind of. It made me realise, it was like a contaminant. A fever that could be burned out. And so there I was. Ready-made guinea pig. It was fine.” 

He makes himself smile. “Use what you can, right?” he says. 

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t look as relieved as Sam was hoping that he might. “Christ, Sam,” he says again. “And you didn’t tell me?” 

“It wasn’t… really I barely had it,” Sam said. “There wasn’t time.” He swallows. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’refineyou’refineyou’refine. “If it had got serious then I’d have let you know.” 

Dean’s still frowning, but at last (at last) he turns back to the stove. Sam breathes out. OK. OK.

When he carries the breakfast to the table, Dean rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder, heavy and brief. It’s not a hug, but it makes Sam tear up anyway. “I’m glad you’re okay, Sammy,” Dean says.


End file.
